Finally—finally—a text from Jane.
JANE:Sorry! Long drive. I'll spare you the details. But we are at our destination.
Relief hits first—she's safe. Then frustration. Then want so acute it borders on pain.
Long drive. How long? From where to where? She's being deliberately vague, which means she's processing something. Is it about us?
I stare at the screen. Three weeks since I had my hands on her. Three weeks since I felt her pulse against my mouth. Three weeks of texts and calls and the slow, maddening ache of wanting someone who's two hundred miles away and might as well be on another planet.
I almost type:Come to Colorado. I need to see you. I need to taste you. I need to know this is real outside a Caribbean bubble.
Instead, I send:
ME:You okay?
JANE:Define okay.
ME:Functional. Uninjured. Not currently being held hostage by highway bandits.
JANE:Then yes. Okay-adjacent.
I almost call her.
Almost.
She sounds tired. And I don't trust myself to keep the conversation casual when what I actually want to say iscome to ColoradoandI'm making decisions and I want you hereandI counted thirty-three reasons this won't work but I don't care about a single one of them.
ME:Miss you.
It's the most honest thing I've said all day. And the least sufficient.
JANE:Miss you too.
I stare at the screen.
Two hundred miles. A contract. A future that doesn't have her shape in it yet.
But it could—if she's willing. If two people who've been circling each other across state lines can finally close the distance.
Big ifs. Real ifs. The kind worth having the conversation for.
Cedar Falls isn't New York. It's not even Boston.
It's small. Quiet. The kind of place where everyone knows your name and your business.
Jane would hate that. Or love it. I can't tell.
She's a city girl—subway tokens, bodega coffee, anonymity as armor. But she's also the woman who haggled with a Caribbean vendor for twenty minutes over a dress.
She fits everywhere and nowhere. That's the thing about her.
And I want to see her try to fit here.
I set the phone down. Lay back on the bed. Stare at the ceiling.
I'm hard. Have been since she texted. Three weeks of distance and my body still responds to her like she's in the room.
I could take care of it. Should, probably. But I don't.
